


The Name is Watson

by jdrush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Humour, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 12:31:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11161878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: Meet John Watson, BAMF agent employed in Her Majesty’s Secret Service.  Or something like that.  (AU, pseudo Bond crossover.  Kind of.  But not really.)





	The Name is Watson

TITLE: The Name is Watson  
AUTHOR: J.D. Rush  
FANDOM: Sherlock BBC1, baby  
PAIRING: Sherlock/John (as if there’s another); M/Q implied (it’s so not what you think); other characters include Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Moriarty in supporting roles.  
SUMMARY: Meet John Watson, BAMF agent employed in Her Majesty’s Secret Service. Or something like that. (AU, pseudo Bond crossover. Kind of. But not really.)  
RATING: PG-13, for language and boykisses  
SPOILERS: Lines stolen, and perverted with great love, from all three episodes of season 1.  
DISCLAIMERS: These lovely characters belong to BBC1 (as noted), Lords Moffat and Gatiss, and Sir A.C. Doyle. The Bond concept belongs to MGM, United Artists, Albert Broccoli, and Ian Flemming. One line borrowed (and twisted) from George Lucus’s “Star Wars“. Oh, and one of Sherlock’s names was stolen from “Family Guy” (thank you, Seth MacFarlane!) And I think that covers everyone.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I’m posting some of my old stories to my AO3 account. This one was originally posted to my live journal October, 2011. The idea came to me from the fanon notion that John is a huge James Bond fan. Just something silly and fun. . .which turned into something long and complicated. *sigh* Only me.

 

 

John Watson, secret agent with a license to kill (not only with a gun, but with the finely tailored ash-gray Canali suit he was currently sporting) hummed happily as he strolled down the main corridor of HQ. It was starting out to be a great day. Already he had single-handedly prevented an international incident by assassinating the Russian Ambassador. Or rather, the FAKE Russian Ambassador. The REAL Russian Ambassador was found safely in a warehouse, tied to a chair and wired with explosives by yours truly. That is, yours truly FOUND the Ambassador. He didn’t tie him up and wire him with explosives. He’d NEVER do that. 

So, yeah. The real Ambassador was safe, the fake one was dead, and John Watson was on his way to receive his accolades from his mysterious boss, a smile on his face and a spring in his step.

“Secret A-A-A-A-GENT man,” (1) he sang off-key under his breath as he opened the door and entered the head honcho’s office. “Secret A-A-A-A-GENT ahhh, morning, Miss Moneypenny,” he greeted genially upon seeing said head honcho’s secretary.

The still-fetching grandmotherly lady with the short, stylish flaxen hair-do and large warm eyes looked up from her knitting and gave John a wide, friendly smile. “OH! Good morning, love. Heard you got another one of those nasty commies today.”

“Indeed I did,“ John proudly proclaimed. 

“Congratulations, dear!” she exclaimed, her needles clicking away merrily. John couldn’t help but notice the item she was knitting and grinned. Looked like he’d be getting another new cuddly jumper for Christmas this year. “I’m so glad we’re facing off against the Russians again. I’ve really missed them. They’re such sexy adversaries. Especially that Captain Ramius. . .”

“Wrong movie, Moneypenny.”

The needles paused. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. That’s ’Hunt for Red October’.”

“And that wasn’t a Bond movie?”

John shuddered. “Please, don’t mention that name. And no, it wasn’t.”

“Pity. I liked that one. Sean Connery. Alec Baldwin.” A wistful, girlish sigh. “Sam Neill.”

“Yes, yes. . .great movie. Is M in?”

At the mention of her boss, Miss Moneypenny snapped out of her Sam-Neill-fueled daydream. “Oh, yes. He’s waiting for you. Just go right in.” With a whispered aside, she added, “Bit cranky today.”

“Thanks for the warning.” John took a quick moment to smooth down his suit jacket and adjust his Thomas Pink tie before opening the large mahogany door and entering the big boss’s inner sanctum. “Morning, M,” he called out as he glided into the room. 

M sat behind his antique cherrywood desk (a gift from Queen Elizabeth), looking resplendent in his navy blue Anderson & Sheppard bespoke suit, Brioni retro-striped tie, and perfectly polished Zelli Italian calf-leather shoes, his ever-present Swaine Adeney Brigg umbrella by his side. (Oh, come on. Don’t look so surprised. Of COURSE Mycroft is M! They even have the same initial! Minor position in the British Government, my Aunt Maggie!)

“Ah, Agent Double-Seven-O. Please, sit down.“ He waved an elegant hand at an empty leather chair, his gaze sliding back to the manila folder on his desk. “I just got the report on your. . . adventure. . .this morning. Good work, Watson.”

“I do my best, sir,” John replied, trying not to preen. . .and not succeeding very well.

“And your best is quite impressive. That’s why you were the only man considered for this next assignment.”

John preened a bit more. “Fire away, sir.”

M flipped open the cover of a secret control panel on his desk, and pushed a button. Suddenly, the large portrait of Sir Elton John (from his Captain Fantastic period) that hung on the far wall receded into the ceiling, revealing a state of the art video monitor. A young, handsome well-dressed man, with cruel laughing brown eyes filled the screen. John noted the stylish Westwood suit, and was instantly jealous. 

“His name is James Moriarty,” M recited, “an evil insane criminal mastermind hell-bent on world-domination.”

“What’s his game?”

“We’re not really sure. Just that he’s brilliant, has apparently unlimited resources, and oh, did I mention he’s evil and insane?”

“So where do I find little Mary Sunshine?“

“We believe he’s in Las Vegas. The Mandalay Bay, to be specific.” Noticing the grimace that crossed John’s face, M quirked an eyebrow and inquired wryly, “Something wrong, Watson?”

“Oh, nothing. I just thought that an evil insane criminal mastermind would hang out some place more. . . posh? Monte Carlo, or Monaco. The French Riviera, perhaps?” 

M just shrugged. “What can I say? He’s apparently fond of the all-you-can-eat seafood buffet. Mrs. Hud. . .I mean, Miss Moneypenny has your plane ticket and itinerary. And make sure to give my best to Q and the boys in R and D.” Passing over the manila folder, M gave John a tight smile and a genial, “Good luck, Watson. The world is counting on you.”

“As always,” John answered smugly. He saluted the mysterious, handsome M, and turned to leave. As he stopped at Moneypenny’s desk to collect his travel plans, he couldn‘t let the opportunity to flirt with the lovely lady slip away. Leaning across her desk, he purred, “So, Moneypenny. . . perhaps we could get together after the case. . .?”

“I’m a secretary, dear, not a cheap floozy,” she shot back, tartly.

Smiling his most charming smile, John quipped, “I never said you were cheap.”

“Oh, you. . .!” Miss Moneypenny giggled.

Mycroft. . .I mean, M called out from his office, “Tick-tock, Watson!”

“Right-O, chief,” he called back--completely mistaking an old ‘Get Smart‘ episode with a Bond movie--as he sauntered out the door and down the hallway, heading for Q’s laboratory. 

“Come on back to Man-da-lay,” (2) he sang off-key on the long elevator ride down to the basement. “Where the flying fishes play. . .” The song rather petered out at that point, since John couldn’t remember the rest of the lyrics, and he ended up just whistling the melody until the elevator doors opened on the deepest level of HQ. 

Britain’s most decorated super secret agent practically skipped down the hall towards the Research and Development department, rubbing his hands together gleefully as he imagined all the lovely new toys and doohickeys he’d soon get to play with. What would it be this week? Rocket boots? Wallet-grenades? Flying cars? Taser pens? X-Ray sunglasses? The mind just reeled!

“Gimme, gimme, gimme,“ he demanded in greeting upon seeing Q sitting at his desk, working on his latest gadget. 

Q looked up at the sound of John’s voice and smiled. John, of course, had heard all the gossip about the ruggedly handsome middle-aged man with the salt-n-pepper hair and kind brown eyes--that he was a retired Detective Inspector, and because he was shagging the mysterious M, he had landed a cushy job as Whitehall’s resident genius inventor.

Well, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.

“Watson! Get over here!” he cried out excitedly. “You have to see this!” He held out a small rectangular object to John, about four inches by two inches, with a large plastic screen. “Can you believe this? It’s a phone. AND a camera. And look at this.” He pressed one of the brightly coloured squares (“it’s called an ‘app’ “ he whispered, confidentially) on the face of the phone, and some odd looking animated birds appeared on the screen. “They call it ‘Angry Birds’,” he said, pressing buttons and laughing as one of the little birds went sailing through the air and crashed into some crates holding other little birds. “Absolutely brilliant, but very addictive.”

“Yeah, that’s great, Q. But what have you got for me?”

Q didn’t respond right away, playing a few more rounds of ‘Angry Birds’ before he finally shut it down with a muttered, “So addictive.” Addressing John, he replied, “Right. Let’s see. What have we got? OH! Here we go.” He handed John a small flat rectangular object, about the size of a credit card, to which was attached a set of ear buds. “This is called an iPod,” he declared, proudly. “You can store up to 5000 songs on it. Can you believe that? On this tiny little thing? My record collection takes up half my bedroom and I don’t think I have 5000 songs combining all of them together. I mean, who NEEDS 5000 songs, right? Once you‘ve got all the Beatles and Beach Boy albums, what more could you possible want?”

“Wow. That’s. . .great. . .” John replied, just a tad under whelmed. “Anything else?”

“Oh, yes. You’re going to love this.” He handed John another flat rectangular object, this one about the size of a book. “This is called a Nook.” 

“What does it do?” John asked, eagerly. “Remotely blow things up? Shoot at my enemies? Sterilize criminal masterminds from 50 feet away?”

Q just laughed. “No, nothing like that. You can store books in it. Whole books. Hundreds of them! For those long international flights you’re always on. You just download works from your favourite authors or the latest best-sellers, and you’re on your way. OH!” he exclaimed suddenly. “I get it now! Nook. Book. It rhymes!”

“Ah, thanks, I guess,” John said, his disappointment getting harder to hide. “What about any additions to the Aston Martin?”

“Oh, Watson, I’m sorry,“ Q replied, a look of pity in his soft brown eyes. “With all the cutbacks and such, we had to trade in the Aston Martin. Do you have any idea how much it cost to lease that thing. . .?”

“Wait a second,“ John cut in. “You traded in my car! But what about my high-speed car chases?“

“Well, we got you a Prius.”

“A what?!” John cried out in disbelief.

“It’s a hybrid. Better for the environment. And a helluva lot cheaper to insure.”

“I don’t believe this!” 

“It’s got all the bells and whistles,” Q pointed out, enthusiastically. “Air conditioning. CD player. Automatic windows. I think there’s some kind of outlet in there where you can plug in that iPod, but I’m not really sure how that works. And there’s this little thing, which is connected to a satellite or some such thing, and get this! It tells you where you are. . .anywhere in the world!”

“You mean, a GPS?” John asked, wearily. 

“A what?” 

“Nevermind. Just give me the keys.”

* * * * * *

The next thing John knew, he was dressed in a snazzy Paul Smith tux and sitting at a bar in a casino. It was truly the weirdest thing--almost as if there had been a cut-away that eliminated all the boring suitcase-packing, cab-riding, airport-arriving, airplane-flying, hotel-registration stuff and got him right back into the action. He had every reason to believe he was in the Mandalay Bay, seeing as how all the cocktail napkins were emblazoned with the casino’s logo. And the fact that there was a huge flashing neon sign hanging behind the bar that read “Mandalay Bay”. 

John wasn’t a super-spy for nothing!

He casually perused the room, looking for his handsome evil insane criminal mastermind, when his gaze fell upon a man at the end of the bar. A gorgeous man, tall and slender, with a mop of dark unruly, bed-wrecked curls, cheekbones so sharp they could cut glass, pink Cupid’s bow lips made to be kissed for hours, and the most exotic almond-shaped pale green-blue eyes John had ever seen. His long, elegant creamy white neck contrasted nicely against the deep purple of his shirt and the midnight blackness of his velvet Dolce & Gabbana suit. He sat quietly by himself, his entire attention focused on the cellphone in his hands.

British secret agent John Hamish Watson was in love.

Sidling up to his oblivious prey, he took a seat and purred, “Well, hello, tall, dark, and very handsome!”

“Hmm?” the vision replied distractedly. Glancing up from his phone and noticing the man now sitting beside him, he gave John a quick appraisal from head to toe, then added a bland, “Oh, hello.”

“Can I buy you a drink, sexy?”

“No thanks.“ He nodded towards his phone. “I’m working.”

John gave him a flirty smile. “All work and no play. . .”

“What does that even mean?” the slim man demanded, his tone peevish. 

The sudden--and unexpectedly irritated--response to John’s seduction technique left him floundering. THIS had certainly never happened before. His usual conquests would typically be dropping their knickers (or boxers, as the case may be) by this point. “Ah, it just means. . .well. . . we can’t work all the time, now can we?”

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Very Handsome scoffed, “I can,” and turned his attention back to his phone.

Oh! Playing hard to get. John could work with that. Placing a hand on one solid, lean thigh, he whispered enticingly, “C’mon. It’s just one little drink. . .”

Suspicious pale green-blue eyes stared at the foreign hand resting on his leg. “Then you’ll let me get back to work?” he asked, wearily.

And oh, that voice! Low and sweet, dark and forbidden, like liquid sex washing over John. He had to hear more of it, preferably as it was moaning out his name while he shagged this enigmatic man through the mattress. “If that’s what you want, gorgeous,” he answered smoothly, even as he ran his hand up higher along the tempting thigh.

“Will it make you stop with the hackneyed lovey-dovey names and leave me alone?”

“Anything for you, beautiful.” John noticed his hand hadn’t been swatted away yet, and wondered if he should press his luck and inch it up a bit higher.

The strange, alluring man placed his phone on the bar and heaved a bored sigh. “Okay. One drink. Same as you. Hey, Marty,” he called out to the bartender. “Two Vodka Martinis. Shaken, not stirred.”

John felt his brow crease in a puzzled expression. “Um, how did you know. . .?”

“Your cufflinks,” Sherlock answered the unfinished question.

The puzzled crease deepened. “My. . .cufflinks. . .?” John repeated, hesitantly. “I don’t see. . .”

“They were purchased in Minsk, where you were stationed, six months, maybe seven.”

“Eight, actually. How. . .?”

“Your accent. I’ll admit your Russian is quite good, but you could never be mistaken for a Muscovite.”

“When did you hear me speak. . .?”

“The cocktail waitress. You were trying to pull her earlier. Wasting your time, by the way. She’s married--doesn’t wear her ring so she’ll get bigger tips.”

“And you know this because. . .?”

Sherlock looked down his nose at John, the most condescending expression on his handsome face. “It is my business to know what other people don’t know.” *

“And am I wasting my time with you?” John asked, coyly.

The man glanced down at the hand still resting on his thigh and smirked. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

John smirked back, his hand creeping further along the inscrutable man’s leg. “Right. But how exactly did you get vodka martini from my cufflinks?”

“Obvious. You developed your taste for vodka during your time in Russia, but you don’t like it straight. You’re definitely not a drinker. Maybe a family history. . .”

John’s mouth dropped open, barely noticing Marty the bartender sliding their drinks in front of them. “How did you know about Harry. . .?”

The other man, however, rambled on, seemingly not hearing what John said. “Of course, there were times you had no option. Perhaps you were trying to keep warm, perhaps you were on assignment. A need to make friends. Keep up appearances. Bonding rituals, such as this. Cheers.” The dark-haired man picked up one of the martini glasses and clicked it delicately against John’s before taking a poised, refined sip. 

John took a much deeper drink from his glass, trying to work out what his companion has just said, but it was still not making any sense. “But I still don’t understand how you guessed. . .”

A haughty sniff. “I NEVER guess.”

“Then how did you know what I was drinking?” 

“Simple. Given a choice, you’d drink vodka because it's familiar to you, but, as we’ve established, not straight. You prefer to cut the alcohol, but not with juice. You’re not a juice kind of guy.”

“How. . .?”

“Tie-tack. Would take too long to explain. So what does one cut vodka with if not juice. . . ?”

“Well there’s any number of. . .”

“. . .yet still maintain the air of quiet, easy urbanity you wish to project? Mixing it with other types of alcohol just makes one look trendy, or in a party mood.”

“Vermouth is another type of alcohol,” John pointed out.

Sherlock easily dismissed that fact with a wave of his hand. “Irrelevant. No, you definitely have a reason to be in this bar, and it’s not to get drunk. You are meeting someone, someone you want to impress. And what is more impressive than a sophisticated martini?”

“But the shaken. . .?”

The bewildering, fascinating man flashed a mischievous smile. “Shot in the dark, but a good one, eh?”

John just sat there for a moment, shaking his head in wonder. Finally, he blurted out, “That was. . . amazing.”

“So I’ve been told,” Sherlock stated, smugly.

“What is your name, love?”

The man gave an annoyed huff. “Really, is that the best line in your repertoire, John?”

Hearing his name spoken in those dulcet tones stopped John short. “Wait. . .what. . .how do you know my name?”

“I overheard you trying to impress the baccarat dealer at table six. You weren’t exactly being discreet Mister The Name Is Watson, John Watson. By the way, don’t bother. He’s married to the cocktail waitress.”

“Dammit,” John muttered. 

“And the name is Sherlock Holmes.”

“No, wait. . .it can't be Sherlock.”

Sherlock shot him another condescending look. “Why ever not?”

“Because you’re in a Bond. . .I mean, a Watson movie. . . so you need a sexually suggestive name, like Pussy Galore or Holly Goodhead or Agent XXX.”

“You must be joking,” Sherlock replied, disdainfully.

“Oh, come on.”

“Absolutely not. It’s bad enough I’ve been reduced to being the second banana in this ridiculous farce. *I* should be the great, British super-spy.”

“You’ve never even seen a Bond movie,” John argued.

“So?”

“So. . .this is MY fantasy and I get to be Bond and YOU get to be my crumpet.”

“Bullocks to that.” 

“Please?” And the pathetic, beseeching look in John’s puppy-dog eyes sealed the deal.

For once, it was Sherlock who was sighing a long-suffering sigh. “Only for you, John. What about Hans Grabuallover?”

“Be serious.”

“Will U. Givemesome?”

“If you’re not going to try. . .”

“Long Rod von Hugen Dong?”

John gritted his teeth and growled, “FINE! We’ll stick with Sherlock.”

“Knew you’d see it my way,” Sherlock said, throwing back the last of his martini. “Well, thanks for the drink. Must be off. . .” as he started to rise. 

John clutched his companion’s thigh, urging him to stay seated. “Wait, where are you going?”

“I’m working, remember? Someone is producing counterfeit limited edition collectable Dalek figurines and I’ve traced his buyer to this hotel and. . .”

“That’s not what Moriarty is doing.”

“Who--or what--is Moriarty?” Sherlock asked, clearly intrigued.

“Evil criminal mastermind? Hell-bent on world domination?”

Sherlock shook his head in the negative. “You've got that wrong. It’s not pronounced Mor-i-art-y. It’s pronounced My-croft.”

“No, it’s definitely Moriar. . .who’s Mycroft?”

“The most dangerous man you’ll ever meet, but not important at the moment. Now, what does this Moriarty person have to do with my counterfeiter?”

John shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing as far as I know.”

“Then why did you bring it up?”

“Because you’re my ‘femme fatale’.”

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock shot back, indignantly. 

“You know. . .my partner. My love interest. We meet cute, you rebuff me. . .”

“Right on track there. . .”

“We flirt for a while, we go on dangerous adventures together, I get to save your life a couple of times, then we have sex.”

“Is that the plot of a typical Bond movie?”

“Yes.”

“Funny. It sounds like our usual weekends.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“So are you going to help me track down Moriarty?”

Sherlock sat quietly thinking for a few moments before casting an assessing look John's way. “Would that be our dangerous adventure?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’d get to have sex?”

“Yes.”

“Together?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock flashed a cheeky grin. “Why didn’t you say so? When do we start . . .?”

“Just let me finish my drink,” John grinned back, sliding off his barstool. But he never got the chance. As he raised the glass to his lips, he suddenly felt the unmistakable cold metal kiss of a gun pressed to the back of his neck. 

“Not so fast, my lovelies,” a smooth, lilting voice cooed. “I have grand plans for you.”

John carefully replaced his glass on the bar before turning to face the man who had spoken--a handsome man with dark laughing cruel eyes, wearing an impeccably chic tuxedo. ‘McQueen‘, John thought jealously. (He was going to have to get the name of this evil criminal mastermind‘s stylist.) Giving the man a quick once over, he quipped, “Sorry, don’t think there’s enough room in the backseat of the Prius for three.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Watson. You’re not really my type.” Glancing over at Sherlock, he smirked, “Now THIS tall glass of water is a completely different story.”

“Hands off, Moriarty,” John warned, taking a step back while trying to keep Sherlock protected behind him. “He’s spoken for.”

Of course, Sherlock having no sense of self-protection, leapt off his stool and strode over to the madman holding the gun. “YOU’RE Moriarty?” he asked, incredulously.

Moriarty flashed a nasty grin, shifting the gun’s target from John to Sherlock. “In the flesh.”

“Aren’t you a little short to be an evil insane criminal mastermind?” 

“Obscure ‘Star Wars’ quotes won’t save you now, Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty sneered.

Sherlock actually stood dumbfounded for a moment before stammering, “You. . .you know who I am?”

“You broke up my counterfeit ‘Hello Kitty’ handbag ring. Of COURSE I know who you are. I’m quite a fan. . .well, I SAY fan. . . what I MEAN is I hate your infernal guts and wish to see you hanging by your entrails from The Stratosphere. Nothing personal.”

“Counter. . .so you ARE my counterfeiter!”

“In a manner of speaking. I’m mentoring Mr. Nedderbarker in his criminal activity. He wished to break into the lucrative field of high-end faked merchandise, so I agreed to help him. For a modest fee, of course.”

“Consulting evil insane criminal mastermind. Brilliant.” And was that an interested twinkle in Sherlock’s eye?

“Hey, hang on a minute!” John cut in, clearly hacked off as he pushed Sherlock aside. “This is *MY* movie! You’re supposed to be MY unrealistically completely over-the-top, immoral adversary. Sherlock’s just the arm-candy.”

“Oh, stop being such a diva, Watson. There’s PLENTY of me to go around.“ Waving the gun between his two hostages, he directed, “Now, I’m on a very tight time schedule, so if you’ll both just come with me, we can get this show on the road.”

“No.”

Both Sherlock and Moriarty looked at John as if he had sprouted another head. “I beg your pardon?” Moriarty drawled, slowly. Evilly. 

“It’s bad enough I didn’t get any good gizmos from Q. And I’m certainly not going to have an adrenaline-fueled high-speed car chase in a fucking Prius. So I refuse to leave with you until I get a world-class fists-punching, bodies-flying, chair-throwing, glass-breaking, waitress-screaming casino brawl.”

Moriarty dragged his non-gun holding hand down his face. “For the love of. . .fine. Let’s get this over with. Oh, boyyyssss. . .”

At his command, a dozen well-dressed, heavily armed thugs suddenly appeared as if by magic. Within seconds, they had surrounded John and Sherlock, who looked anything but pleased at this development.

John glanced around at his new opponents, weighing their strengths and weaknesses, planning his attack. “So. . .which ones are you going to take?” he asked Sherlock.

“None.”

Spinning around to glare at Sherlock, John squeaked, “What?!” 

“This was your idea, John. I fail to see why I should risk any damage to this face in an ill-advised, ego-driven donnybrook.”

“So you want me to take out all these men by myself?!“

“Actually, the only man I want you taking out is me,” Sherlock replied, calmly. “To a nice restaurant, where I’ll watch you eat an expensive meal, then dancing, and then a five star hotel. Preferably by the shoreline. I love the beach. In fact, I have this really sexy little red speedo. . .”

“Sherlock!” John cried out, exasperated.

“Look, are you two going to get this melee under way, or just stand around and bicker like an old married couple all night?” Moriarty bitched from the sidelines. “Because I have things to do, places to go, people to kill. . .”

“Will you just SHUT UP!” John snapped.

“Hey, no one talks to our bossman that way,” one of the larger thugs said, charging right at John.

And the fight was on.

There were plenty of punches. A couple of bodies flew. A few chairs were thrown. Many waitresses screamed. LOTS of glass got broken. 

It took John less than ten minutes to dispatch all the thugs. Sherlock looked on with admiration, and a touch of lust. “Amazing,” he whispered, his voice full of wonder and reverence.

“Thank you.”

“You just saved my life.”

“I guess I did.”

Sherlock ran a long-fingered hand down John’s chest as he crooned, “I can’t wait to see your moves in the bedroom.”

John flashed him a lascivious smile. “I can’t wait to show them to you.”

From behind them a throat cleared. “Are you ready now, Watson?” Moriarty asked in a bored tone.

Taking a quick moment to relish the chaos and destruction he had wrought on the casino‘s gaming room, John answered a chipper, “Yeah, all right. Let’s do this.”

As Moriarty marched his captives through the crowds of desperate gamblers (taking a quick detour through the all-you-can-eat-seafood-buffet) John had two things running through his mind: a) how he and Sherlock could escape this obviously unhinged maniac’s clutches, and b) why the HELL didn’t anyone notice a lunatic flaunting a Sig Sauer P226 in a busy casino!

But before he could come to a conclusion on either topic, they had reached their destination. They found themselves standing in the casino’s large Shark Reef Aquarium, the curved archway around them a huge glassed-in fish tank filled with exotic marine life swimming around peacefully, unmindful of the dangerous man standing right in front of their fishy little eyes. Incredibly, the mass of humanity that populated the rest of the casino was absent from the viewing hall. (I mean, what are the odds?)

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here today. . .” Moriarty giggled at his own private little joke.

“Can we just skip the grandstanding and get to the part where you reveal your evil insane plot for world domination before you kill us?” 

Moriarty pouted. “You, my dear Watson, are absolutely no fun.”

“Just trying to speed my imminent demise along,” John flippantly replied.

“Bored,” Sherlock grumbled beside him.

“Well, since you’re so curious, I suppose it would be cruel to keep you in suspense any further. Then again, since I AM cruel. . .”

“WHAT. IS. THE. DAMN. PLOT?!” John demanded impatiently. 

“BORED!” Sherlock proclaimed louder. 

“I swear, you two are the most annoying hostages I’ve ever dealt with. But since genius needs an audience, I‘ll tell you my diabolical plan.”

“Finally,” Sherlock murmured under his breath. 

“I have henchmen stationed around the world. . .”

“Do people really have henchmen?” John interrupted.

“Shut up, Watson. As I was saying, I have henchmen stationed around the world, set to assassinate every leader at exactly the same moment. . .which would be, oh. . .ten minutes from now.”

John gasped. He had to give it to the madman. . .that WAS a pretty good diabolical plan. “ALL the world leaders?” he repeated, incredulously.

“Every last manjack of them,” Moriarty smiled, proudly.

“That’s a lot of henchmen,” Sherlock commented, drolly.

Moriarty sighed dramatically. “Tell me about it. You should see my payroll. But it will all be worth it when I rule the world!” At that, he let go with a high-pitched cackle that was more annoying than intimidating.

“But that. . .that’s completely mad!” John exclaimed. “It’ll plunge the entire world into lawless chaos!”

A evil smirk. “That IS the idea, yes.”

“Why would you want to do that?” John asked.

“Because that’s what evil insane criminal masterminds DO!” Moriarty snarled. 

“Drama queen,” Sherlock muttered under his breath, though Moriarty took no notice of it.

“And everything was going fine until you two meddling kids started interfering with my nefarious schemes one too many times. Therefore, you must be dealt with.”

“Nefarious schemes?” Sherlock mouthed at John.

John just rolled his eyes, and mouthed back, “Scooby-Doo fan.”

Moriarty, who was too busy reveling in his evilness, didn’t notice the little exchange, instead waved his gun at the huge glass wall around them. “As you can see, this is a 1.3 million gallon tank, filled with the most dangerous sharks and sea life known to mankind. You two are about to become quite. . .friendly. . .with them.”

“Didn’t I see this in ‘The Spy Who Loved Me’?” John inquired. 

“SHUT UP!” Moriarty screeched, stomping his foot angrily. “Great! Now you’ve gone and ruined my evil villain pun!”

“I’m sorry,” John apologized, sarcastically. “You were saying. . .?”

Moriarty huffed, angrily tugging at his Alexander McQueen tux jacket. “It’s not going to work now.”

“Oh, please. It wouldn’t be a Bond. . .ahhhh. . .a Watson movie without a good evil villain pun.” 

It was quiet a moment as Moriarty debated whether to grace his captives with his pun-ness; with a shrug of his shoulders and a quirk of his lips, he said, “Okay. Wouldn’t want to deprive you of my evil brilliance.” This time it was Sherlock who rolled his eyes. “As you can see, this is a 1.3 million gallon. . .”

“You said that already,” John pointed out. At Moriarty’s glare, he mumbled sheepishly, “Sorry. I promise not to interrupt you again.”

“Right. Lots of water. Lots of dangerous sea life. Feel like having a dip, Mr. Watson? I’m sure your demise will go off swimmingly.”

“Oh, fuck this,” Sherlock muttered, pulling John’s Walther PPK (which he had lifted off the super-spy while they were in line for the all-you-can-eat seafood buffet), from his pocket. He pointed it at Moriarty and shot the evil insane criminal mastermind right between the eyes before anyone else in the room knew what was happening. As he hit the floor--dead as a coffin-nail--Sherlock smiled, sure he would cherish the look of surprise on Moriarty’s face for many years to come.

But if he thought he was going to get a congratulatory snog from John, he was greatly mistaken. “Sherlock?! Are you mad?!”

“Angry as hell,” Sherlock agreed. “We waited all that time for THAT pathetic excuse for an evil villain pun. . .”

“Weren’t you listening, you stupid git? Every world leader is going to be assassinated in ten. . .no, wait. . .FIVE minutes! And you just killed the only man who could have stopped it!”

Sherlock’s eyes shifted uneasily for a moment before focusing on John once more. “Not good?” he asked.

“A bit not. . .no. .. A LOT not fucking good!” John shouted.

Sherlock bit on his lower lip nervously. “Sorry?”

“We have to stop this from happening, Sherlock. THINK!”

Sherlock thought, and thought. A cute little furrow creased the bridge of his nose as he thought and it took all of John‘s willpower not to lean over and lick it. After an agonizing three minutes, Sherlock‘s face lit up. “Oh. OH! I’ve got an idea,” he declared, dropping to his knees.

John felt his cheeks go pink at Sherlock’s actions, wondering if they really had enough time for a last-minute blowjob before the end of the world. Deciding that would DEFINITELY fall into the ‘not good under any circumstances’ category, he stammered, “Sherlock, you should know that while I’m flattered by your interest, I really don’t think this is the time. . .”

“What are you on about, John?” Sherlock demanded as he crawled over to Moriarty’s lifeless body and pulled his cellphone out of his jacket pocket. Pressing the ‘Henchmen’ app, he announced (in a perfect imitation of the late criminal mastermind’s lilting annoying voice), “Hello boys! Slight modification of our plans. You are not, repeat NOT to kill all the world leaders.”

John smacked himself in the head. What was he thinking when he brought Sherlock onto this case? Yeah, sure, the man was gorgeous with an arse you could build a major religion around, but still. . .

At the sound of disappointed henchmen grumbling (“This sucks.” “I hate this organization.” “We NEVER get to have any fun!”) Sherlock added a shrill, “What can I say? I’m SOOOOOOOO changeable!” and broke the connection. He looked over at John and smirked. “Well. . .?”

“That was. . .that was. . .” John shook his head in wonder and grinned. “Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.”

Sherlock knelt up, back straight, and gazed up at John, his expression surprisingly open and vulnerable. “You think so?” he asked shyly, and at that moment John wanted nothing more than to grab him and kiss him for being incredible and gorgeous and for saving the world and for that unbelievably sexy purple shirt and for just being Sherlock. 

“I know so. You were amazing.”

“Amazing?” Sherlock repeated warily, as if unused to people complimenting him. 

“Completely and utterly amazing,” John assured him. “You are the most amazing person I have ever met.” 

Sherlock preened at the praise. He liked hearing he was amazing. He especially liked hearing John Watson tell him he was amazing. He couldn’t wait to hear it some more. . .preferably as he shagged the man legless. “Okay, so we’ve flirted. We’ve had a dangerous adventure. You saved my life earlier. Does that mean we can have sex now?”

John grinned. Looked like Three-Continents Watson was about to add to his resume. “Let’s see--I think we’ve hit all the major plot points, so, yeah. Sure.”

“Great!” Sherlock said, tugging off his expensive D & G jacket.

“Now?” John asked, skeptically. “With a man lying dead right there?”

Sherlock glanced down at Moriarty’s cooling corpse. “Yeah, it’s more fun that way.”

“I’m not so sure. . .”

“Well, he’s wasn’t a very nice man,” Sherlock reminded him.

“I know, but still. . .”

Sherlock gave a disgruntled scoff as he tugged his jacket back on. “Fine. We’re in a hotel.” He stood up, grabbed John’s hand and started dragging him away. “I’m sure we can find an empty room somewhere, if you want to be dull about it.”

“I wonder who’s going to clean up this mess,” John mumbled distractedly as he stumbled after his keyed up, long-legged piece of crumpet.

“Not really my area. Sex, on the other hand. . .”

John chuckled. “You’re really gung-ho on this sex lark, aren’t you?”

“It’s all I’ve been thinking about since we met,” Sherlock admitted.

“You have?”

Sherlock stopped suddenly, causing John to crash into him. Turning to face the startled secret agent, he grinned. “Indeed. Hot, nasty, kinky sex.”

“Really?” John squeaked. Horrified by the sound, he coughed, and said again, in a much deeper, more masculine voice. “Really?”

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock assured, wrapping his arms around John‘s waist and pulling him in tightly. “All-night, mind-blowing, can’t-look-your-mother-in-the-eye-in-the-morning sex.”

“Ahhhh. . .”

That mellifluent voice rumbled low and lustful in John’s ear. “Shower-for-a-week-but-you-still-can’t-get-clean-because-it was-so-dirty-sex.”

“Oh, God, YES!” John exclaimed, grasping Sherlock’s face in his hands and dragging him down until he could crush his mouth to those perfect, kissable Cupid’s bow lips. For long minutes, John lost himself in Sherlock’s kisses, drowning in his lips, his mouth, his tongue, his breath. Hands clutched and grappled, stroked and caressed as their mouths crashed and slipped, bit and soothed. Kisses so sweet, so desperate, so hungry, so passionate.

John was just about to throw Sherlock to the floor and take him right there--dead evil insane criminal mastermind be damned--when he heard an unexpected (and unwelcomed) voice behind him: “Ah! Mr. Watson! I take it congratulations are in order!”

Pulling out of Sherlock’s embrace, John spun around and faced his mysterious boss, who was dapper as all fuck in his perfectly tailored classic Henry Poole tuxedo. “M! What are you doing here?”

“Just checking in on my best secret agent.” Nodding towards Sherlock, he grinned, “And my baby brother.”

“Piss off, Mycroft,” Sherlock shot back, sullenly. 

John looked wildly back and forth between the two fashionably dressed handsome men, his mouth gaping in confusion. “Wait. Hang on. Mycroft? The most dangerous man I’ll ever know?”

M. . .that is. . .Mycroft. . .tsked. “Are you still spinning that tired yarn, Sherlock?”

“Are you still single-handedly running the British government?” Sherlock shot back.

“That’s nonsense,” Mycroft scoffed with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Actually, he’s not that far off, M, ah, Mycroft,” John stammered. “So, um, ah. . .so. . .this man is your. . .?”

“Brother. Yes. Do keep up, John. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Mycroft, we’re going upstairs to have sex.”

Mycroft perked up at that. “Really?”

“Yes. Knee-knocking, toe-curling, post-it-on-Facebook-and-make-all-your-friends-jealous- because-they’ll-NEVER-have-sex-that-good-in-their-lives sex.”

“Oh! That sounds lovely,” Mycroft sighed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had earth-shaking, bone-melting, ’oh-my-god-that-is-the-most-disgusting-thing-anyone-has-ever-done-to-me-let’s-do-it-again’ sex. Mind if I join you?”

As John watched in shocked disbelief, Sherlock sidled up to Mycroft and draped himself sensually around the older man. “Oh, yes, please join us,” he purred, running his hand over Mycroft’s chest. “My big, BIG brother. . .”

 

“NOOOOOO!” John screamed into the night, bolting upright on the sofa as he awoke with a horrified jolt.

“Yes, that’s my reaction to ‘Moonraker’, too,” Sherlock deadpanned from the other end of the sofa, where he sat fiddling with his laptop. For a change.

John glanced between the telly--just in time to see the ending credits rolling to the cheesy disco-flavored vocals of Shirley Bassey--and the cluttered coffee table, where the half-filled containers of their very late night dinner lay scattered about, and made an solemn vow to himself:

No more spicy Thai beef and Bond movies after midnight ever again!

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> SONGOGRAPHY:
> 
> (1) “Secret Agent Man” by Johnny Rivers  
> (2) “Road to Mandalay” by Speaks/Kipling; arranged by Nelson Riddle; performed by Frank Sinatra
> 
> FOOTNOTE: 
> 
> * Line stolen with great affection from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle”.


End file.
